


Need the Darkness, A Death Grip Embrace

by missgoalie75



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missgoalie75/pseuds/missgoalie75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>…and now here is at sixteen-going-on-seventeen (goddamn it, now he's going to have that song stuck in his head until five in the morning), and laying in bed, repeating his old habits of keeping himself awake. Although this time there's the</i> added bonus <i>of nightmares, which is a much stronger motivation than the flimsy</i> what ifs <i>of a child.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Need the Darkness, A Death Grip Embrace

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [you fill me in and you are permanent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/956591) by [marlahey (imperfectandchaotic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectandchaotic/pseuds/marlahey). 



> other characters/ships: Scott, Sheriff Stilinski; brief mention of Lydia/Aiden.
> 
> spoilers/warnings: through 3x12; passing thought of suicide.
> 
> disclaimer: Title is from "Fallen Empires" by Snow Patrol.
> 
> Note: Annie/imperfectandchaotic worked with the same idea and is posting her interpretation at the same time.

Stiles remembers that right after his mom died, he had trouble falling asleep; he'd stay up for as long as he possibly could, until he couldn't fight the heaviness of his eyelids and the warm glow of his nightlight lulling him into a false sense of security born out of his delirious exhaustion.

He went through a phase where he was so afraid of closing his eyes, just like his mom, and not waking up again.

Mostly it was the fear of death itself – he thought about not living and being nothing and was _terrifying_ (it still is, eight years later) – but it was also the horrible idea of leaving his dad with _no one_. At least his mom could die knowing that they had each other – Stiles doesn’t have that luxury and neither does his dad.

Eventually though, he went back to normal sleeping patterns and his dad put away the whiskey and things started to become a new normal, which included panic attacks and late hours and silent, but comforting dinners in the kitchen.

That is, until the supernatural decided to wreak havoc on Stiles' already precariously balanced life and now here is at sixteen-going-on-seventeen (goddamn it, now he's going to have that song stuck in his head until five in the morning), and laying in bed, repeating his old habits of keeping himself awake.

Although this time there's the _added bonus_ of nightmares, which is a much stronger motivation than the flimsy _what ifs_ of a child.

Usually he plays games all night – it's easy to stay awake when distracted by fighting monsters and digging through the wonders of the internet. He's considering on trying to read every Wikipedia article, which may be doable at the rate that he reads and how much free time he suddenly has now that the alpha pack is officially disbanded.

From Scott:  
 _You awake?_

It's only one in the morning – of course he's wide-awake.

From Stiles:  
 _Yeah – what's up?_

 __From Scott:  
 _I just remembered that we have Othello reading for English – how much do we need to read?_

 __From Stiles:  
 _Act 1 but there's also those stupid short answer questions online_

 __From Scott:  
 _Ugh seriously? Why didn't one of the subs say so?_

 __From Stiles:  
 _Because they're all dicks and they want to make sure we check the dumb website._

 __From Scott:  
 _Thanks bro_

 __From Scott:  
 _Now GO TO SLEEP. I know you're not doing homework and you looked like crap today._

 __From Stiles:  
 _I'm breaching level 80, Scott, this is big shit I can't just sleep while I'm so close._

 __From Scott:  
 _I'm literally going to go to your house and stuffing NyQuil down your throat if you don't sleep._

 __From Stiles:  
 _And force me into a lifetime addiction of cold medicine? At least use ZQuil._

 __From Scott:  
 _Whatever makes you sleep. I don't think you can keep running on Reeses and Diet Coke._

 __From Scott:  
 _Are you okay? Is it really just WoW?_

 __From Stiles:  
 _The WoW helps. I'll be fine. Do your homework, Alpha Scott._

 __From Scott:  
 _Would you stop calling me that??_

 __From Stiles:  
 _No – it's badass. Embrace it. Live it. Use it to get girls._

 __From Scott:  
 _Night Stiles._

 __Stiles chuckles and tosses his phone onto his bed and continues playing. He's going to make it to level eighty before the sun rises, mark his words.

**

" _Dude_ , you didn't _sleep_ ," Scott hisses, but his eyes are so full of concern that his tone loses its bite (ha, ha).

"Level _eighty_ , though," Stiles says, shutting his locker and rubbing his eyes. He put eye drops in before he left the house, at least to convince his dad that _no_ , he's not staying up all night, but he thinks he may have to use some more before first period. "Besides, I slept…dozed…a bit." Marginally true since there was a time when he stared at the computer and it was five in the morning, but then looked again at his digital clock and it was half past six; he's not sure if he actually shut his eyes or if it was just a very long daydream.

He starts heading towards the bathroom to put in more eye drops when Scott grabs his arm, his grip firm. "Stiles," he starts.

"Hey, I'm a teenage boy – sleep is for the weak, you can sleep when you die, ex cetera, ex cetera."

Scott stares at him, unimpressed. "I get nightmares too sometimes," he says, a repeat. "It helps to talk about it," he adds pointedly, eyes flickering towards Lydia, who's walking – more like strutting – down the hallway with Aiden in tow.

"Yeah, no."

Scott blinks in surprise. "But…you guys are friends now. She's your _emotional tether_. You do realize that it wasn't just about pulling you back in that moment, right? She can help you keep the darkness at bay. It's why I talk to Deaton about it, why Allison…is getting closer to Isaac."

Stiles automatically pats Scott in the back as a form of comfort because it can't be easy for him, but for the most part, he seems to be doing okay about it. Seriously – Scott is way better than all of them put together.

"Yeah, but, uh. See…something may have happened after you ran off with Evil Alpha…I'll tell you in English later."

(She doesn't look at either Scott or Stiles – expected – and yet it still hurts a little.)

**

Scott punches Stiles on the shoulder with barely contained excitement. " _Dude_ ," he hisses, grinning. "Do you know what this means?"

"That I'm going to lose my arm? God, Scott, watch the wolf powers," Stiles groans, rubbing his sore limb.

Scott starts rambling about epiphanies and being seen in a whole new light and honestly, it sounds great and romantic and totally something he dreamed about as a freshman when he hoped that growing a few inches over the summer and all the growth spurt pains he had would be worth it if she actually looked at him this time.

But Stiles feels too old and past the point of healthy cynicism for that; he hasn't been stagnant while hanging around her.

Besides, she deserves a hell of a lot better than that.

Lydia's sitting in her seat already, texting away and she doesn't react when he sits down in the seat in front of her. He said hi to her the first day back after everything and she only gave him an acknowledging eyebrow raise, so he just nods at her if she catches his gaze.

(She doesn't more often than she does.)

He has to bite back a groan when their English sub for Wednesdays and Fridays enters the classroom.

The sub in question is Mr. Richardson, an elderly chap who usually teaches the senior AP Literature classes and the elective English courses that are generally infamous for their ridiculous course load, despite being graded as a regular level class.

Stiles almost wishes that the revenge-focused Ms. Blake were still around because at least she tolerated Stiles with his long-winded comments in some classes while in others he just talked with Scott or maybe Lydia. Mr. Richardson has less patience with shenanigans in general and his elitist attitude is enough to frustrate him on a normal day, but since he's maybe running on five hours of sleep over the past week, it's unbearable.

Although his discussion of _Othello_ is dull enough that he can maybe shut his eyes for just a little –

**

He doesn't realize he feels like he's drowning until a small, strong hand grips his shoulder and pulls him out.

He inhales like he's been holding his breath for minutes, delirious as he can't make out his surroundings, blinded by the fluorescent lighting. The only thing grounding him is the hand – no, wait, two hands – on him and _she can't let go_ –

" _Stilinski_!" Mr. Richardson snaps and Stiles tries to calm his breathing, reaching behind to grasp one of Lydia's hands to keep her there. "Principal's office. _Now_."

He exhales sharply, holding her hand even tighter until Lydia hisses, " _Stiles_ , go."

He swallows and he guesses it's a good thing that Lydia drops her hands because there's no way he would've let go.

Scott is staring at him with a mixture of shock and concern as he packs up notebook and swings his bag over his shoulder. Stiles just shrugs his shoulders like, _what can ya do?_ , even though it's not exactly kosher to have nightmares in the middle of class.

He pointedly ignores the rest of the class, who no doubt thinks he's as nuts as Lydia, and hopes that his favorite seat outside the principal's office is free.

**

He gets detention for all of next week since he should apparently use the weekend to "get some damn sleep."

But he's sent to his next class – gym, oh joy – with a late pass, so. He makes his way over to the gym when he remembers the swimsuit haphazardly packed in his bag since they've started the swim unit this week and he's used up all his excused absences.

(Girls have it good when it comes to this dumb unit – they can claim to be on their period the whole time and get away with it since half the gym teachers are guys and are too nervous to question it.)

This past week he's been sitting on the highest bleacher as far away from the pool as possible, hating how terrified he is by it and yet how…appealing it is. 

He's told Scott about it, and he gets it, giving him tips on how to effectively pretend-sneeze so he can get out of swimming, but he's not as strong as Scott on this – he doesn't think he can bounce back as easily.

If at all.

"Nice of you to join us, Stilinski," his gym teacher drawls as he walks over to her and gives her his note. She purses her mouth as she reads it before saying, "Get changed, make it quick." She narrows his eyes at him. "You look like death. You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. Bad night's sleep."

He rushes into the locker room before she can question him further.

**

Another reason why he hates the swimming unit in gym class is that he's really, really pale and feels like he's glow in the dark in comparison to all the other guys in his class, who are beefed up and perfectly tan.

Naturally, all the guys in the class, especially his fellow lacrosse players, have to make fun of him for it.

"You think it would stop being hilarious after _freshman year_ ," Stiles says testily when he joins Scott in line.

Scott looks over at the other line where three of their teammates are sniggering. He glares at them and they promptly shut up and look away. "They're idiots. Don't do what you're not comfortable with. We know you have abs," he says, lightly punching Stiles in the stomach.

"Hey, Stilinski, are you going to do another one of your –" one of his teammates starts before flailing around, an imitation of what happened last year when he was staring at Lydia diving perfectly into the pool and Jackson caught him doing so, pushing him into the pool in retaliation.

It's a pretty accurate imitation that causes everyone to laugh and makes him flush an angry red. He curls his hands at his sides as a wave of irrational anger takes hold. 

"Stiles," Scott says in warning, a hand on his shoulder.

Stiles shakes it off. "Oh, yeah, definitely, just for you," he says, skipping the line to the front. He makes sure Danny has swam far enough away before he jumps in with a front somersault.

 _Fuck you_.

He can hear a split second of _oooh_ chanting before he's submersed underwater.

He doesn't know why he was so _scared_ about this – it sort of feels comforting, being surrounded. Almost like…home.

He starts to see black tendrils creeping through the corners of his eyes so he shuts them and focuses on the muffled silence and the pressure in his ears. If he just inhales, he'll be at peace, right? He'll _finally_ be able to sleep – why didn't he _think_ of that? For someone who can be smart, he really is _stupid_ – 

Superhuman strength grips him and pulls him to the surface before he can finish inhaling. He splutters and tries to get out Scott's hold, but Scott looks scared out of his mind and _pissed_.

"Get him out, McCall!" their gym teacher orders. "Everyone back up!"

Stiles doesn't know how he manages to get out of the pool without attracting any weird attention since he's pretty sure Scott is manhandling him in ways that really shouldn't be possible with his stature and _supposed strength_.

"Take him to the nurse's office," she tells Scott, who's keeping a death grip around his waist as he leads him back into the locker room, where it's fucking _freezing_.

"Stiles," Scott says, taking his other hand and rubbing it up and down Scott's arm. "What the hell were you _thinking_?"

He doesn't seem to expect an answer because he just takes him to his locker and shoves a towel into his chest, his eyes wet. "Don't you _ever_ do that again," he says fiercely.

Stiles feels tears sting his eyes and he nods, still shaking as he gathers his things into the nearest bathroom stall.

**

He gets to curl up on one of the uncomfortable bed-like things in the nurse's office until his dad can pick him up. He tries to say that he can just _drive_ home, but nurse and Scott simultaneously tell him to be quiet and rest, which was scary enough to shut him up.

"Do they really expect me to sleep on this thing?" Stiles mutters, squirming to get comfortable.

Scott doesn't answer – he's busy furiously texting.

Stiles groans. "Are you updating the whole _pack_ or something?"

"No."

Scott doesn't elaborate, even when Stiles groans and complains and eventually, Scott whacks him with his bag.

"Cut it out, dude. Where are your keys – I'll drive your Jeep home, okay?"

Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. "I hate the idea of leaving my baby here."

"I know you do." Scott pauses, looking towards the doorway. "Your dad's here. Text me later – _after_ you sleep." He squeezes Stiles' shoulder. "Maybe talking to your dad about it more will help. Just a thought."

Stiles hides his face in the crook of his arm. He doesn't want to _see_ his dad at this point; what the hell was he _thinking_?

He can hear his dad walk toward him and he hates how he can feel the sting of tears behind his eyes.

"Stiles," his dad says, gently shaking his shoulder. "Come on."

Stiles swallows thickly and sits up, rubbing his eyes to make sure they're dry as he swings his bag over his shoulder.

His dad brings his arm around Stiles and pulls him close, not saying anything as they walk up to his cruiser.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, choking on his words.

"I know, Stiles."

Stiles tries to hold back his tears on the ride home, but he does a really terrible job at it.

**

After a long shower and changing into sweatpants and a sweatshirt, his dad brings up _tea_ of all things – he thinks it's from three years ago when Stiles read an article about tea's antioxidants and thought if his dad started drinking it, his health would be good – and sits with him in his room until he starts talking about the nightmares and what it was like on _the other side_ , or whatever it's called, and how he still feels it – a black snake in his mind, which is confusing because shouldn't it be white or something?

He hates how beaten down his dad looks when Stiles finishes talking.

"I suppose it would be impossible to get away from all this, huh," his dad says, rubbing his face with his hand.

"Yeah."

Stiles watches the dregs of his tea swirl around the bottom of the mug and wonders how long the peace is going to last this time.

The doorbell rings and Stiles checks his phone with a furrowed brow, but no one's texted.

"I'll get it," his dad says, taking Stiles' mug from him and leaving the room.

Stiles sighs and rests back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling. Maybe he should start taking something to get him to sleep – just until he stops looking like a raccoon and can function like a normal person –

"Hey."

He whips his head to the door to find Lydia standing there – a large bag under her arm and a determined expression on her face.

"Scoot," she says, heading over to the bed, dropping her bag unceremoniously in the corner as she steps out of her heels, sinking four inches. He likes her feet – they're small and cute.

She shoves him and oh, she wants to get _on_ his bed, which is pretty much a dream come true except he's starting to shake again because she's _so close_ and she's reaching out to pull him in.

"Don't you say a word," she warns him, running a hand through his hair, lulling him to sleep.

He goes out – like the saying goes – like a light switch.

**

He wakes up with Lydia's chest pressed up against him and his totally obvious _hard on_ pressed against her.

"Oh my _God_ ," he blurts, flipping over on his back, taking deep breaths in the hopes of _calming down_.

"Ugh," Lydia groans, rolling over to look at him. It takes her a second to understand. "It's a _dick_ , I'm over it," she mutters.

"Your voice is _really_ not helping things," he says, still looking up at the ceiling.

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes, but remains quiet and he tries to get rid of his boner by sheer will. It seems to go well since he finds himself getting sleepy again. "W'time is it?"

"Nine."

"At night?" He's more awake now.

"Have you been eating? Your dad made some sandwiches earlier."

"Did you eat?"

"Yeah. He cuts the crust off. It's really sweet."

He finally looks at her and smiles. "Yeah. It's because I'm still five and hate the crust."

She laughs a little and _fucking hell_ , that image of her smiling into his pillow is going to wreck him for the rest of his life, he swears.

He lifts himself up and says, "I'm going to eat something really quick. Do you…want to come downstairs…?" he trails off awkwardly.

"You go – I'm going to change."

"You're staying?" he blurts.

She smiles sadly at him, patting him lightly on the cheek. "Yeah. Go down. You slept like the dead – it scared your dad."

He smiles and crawls out of bed, probably looking like an idiot while doing so, and heads downstairs.

**

"Oh, it's alive."

Stiles winces and rubs the back of his head. "Hi."

His dad smiles. "PB and J?" He holds up a bag of chips. "With chips?"

"Music to my ears." Stiles collapses onto a seat and sighs. He digs in and is pleasantly surprised that his dad put the chips in the sandwich the way he likes it. "You're, uh…okay with this?" he asks as he chews, glancing up at the ceiling; he can hear Lydia walking above them.

"Honestly?" his dad sighs, sliding over a glass of milk. "Anything to get you to sleep." He narrows his eyes at him. "Besides…I thought nothing was going on…"

Stiles swallows. "Uh."

"Oh, boy, are you going to explain that tomorrow."

"She has a boyfriend now. It doesn't matter." 

His dad gives him a look. "Just go upstairs and enjoy the peace before the interrogation."

Stiles salutes him and finishes off the rest of his milk. "G'night, Dad."

"'Night, Stiles."

Stiles pauses before going around the table and hugging him tightly. His dad rocks a little from side to side, like he used to when Stiles was a kid and he feels a lump in his throat again.

"You're going to be okay," his dad says, bringing a hand to the back of Stiles' head. "You're strong."

Stiles doesn't really think so, but he appreciates it anyway.

**

After brushing his teeth for about five minutes and giving himself a pep talk in front of the mirror, Stiles goes back to his bedroom to find Lydia sitting on his bed, reading through print outs of –

"Shit."

She looks up and he can't read the expression on his face. "When did you do this?" she asks, holding up the papers.

He swallows and shuts the door behind him. "Sunday? Monday? Early in the week."

He slowly makes her way over to her and sits beside her. She's back to reading through his research, something that successfully kept him up for two nights – he should probably thank her for that – and so far she doesn't seem like she wants to murder him, which is a plus.

"You think I'm a banshee," she says, her voice cracking on the last word.

"Uh, well. Scott said he heard you scream – like a loud, piercing scream, which is kind of impossible given how far away we were, so that got me thinking…" he shrugs. "It makes sense."

"Of course it does," she says, dropping the papers on the floor, "because it's true."

"What do you –" he freezes. "Did…Ms. Blake tell you that? Is _that_ why she tried to kill you? She knew what you were?"

She inhales and exhales. "She said it wasn't that, but…yeah. She told me I was a banshee. I tried to do research, but." She shakes her head. "I couldn't get past the search page."

Of course he has to yawn loudly to ruin the moment. "Sorry," he says, embarrassed. "I'm just…gonna lie down." He crawls back into bed and she surprisingly follows suit. He tries not to stare at the soft skin of her thighs in her pink pajama shorts.

"You color coded the research," she says with a raised eyebrow as they rest their heads on the pillow.

"It gave me something to do."

Her eyes look too green against the grey of his pillow and he wonders what she told Aiden about missing a perfectly good Friday night.

"I'm sorry."

He blinks and responds, "You don't have to apologize, I mean. I probably shouldn't have been a baby about it – I could've just come up to you. We're still friends…right?"

She nods. "Yeah. I haven't been a good one lately, but. We are."

He gives her a lopsided smile, which she returns with her own.

"So…in the pool…what happened?" she asks quietly.

He looks away from her face and focuses on the way her hair is gently curling down her arm. He starts rambling about his dreams, about black tendrils in the corner of his eyes and piercing him and waking up on the verge of death; it's been easier to stay awake than deal with drowning every time he closes his eyes and he doesn't know _why_ he's having a harder time dealing with this than Scott or Allison –

"Allison isn't doing as well as she appears," Lydia interrupts him, running a finger over his knuckles. "She has dreams too."

"Oh."

"She's never been a big sharer."

"Well, duh."

She gives him a funny look.

"Hey, she's my friend too. I mean, I had to be while she was dating Scott. I was their messenger pigeon for a while."

She nods, embarrassed, and if they were having this conversation earlier, before sleeping for six hours when he was irritable and half out of his mind, he probably would've asked how her friendship with Scott was going after she made out with him.

He rolls his face into his pillow and sighs. "Where do people think you are?" he asks, his voice muffled.

"My mom thinks I'm at Allison's. Aiden knows I'm at your house."

He peaks at her with one eye. "What?"

She purses her lips. "It was _his_ pack's fault for doing this. So he can just accept the fact that his actions have consequences."

He lifts his face to properly look at her. He hates how much things haven't changed, that he's still on the verge of tongue-tied when near her, even though he's lately been able to work through it. He hates that she's with Aiden, who may have switched to the good side, but still helped in _killing Boyd_ and –

"You're judging," she warns him.

He clenches his jaw and forces himself to keep his mouth shut. They can go back to bickering and arguing tomorrow.

"Look," she starts, "I know you don't understand –"

"I'd rather… _really_ not talk about it, please. Lydia. I swear we can fight all we want tomorrow and you can use your banshee powers to blow my eardrums, but. Seriously. I think I need to sleep for like…sixteen hours before I'm ready for that."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine." Then she smiles a little. "I can teach you some nice, zen exercises for you to do before you go to sleep. They helped a little last year."

"What, like, breathing and stuff?"

"That's part of it."

He shuts his eyes and breaths, his exhaustion hitting him again.

"Sweet dreams, Stiles," she says quietly.

He thinks he says 'you too,' but he may have imagined it.

**

He wakes up with cheek resting on Lydia's chest, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and he can't image how this may have happened, but he is _so_ not complaining, especially since she feels _so awesome_ – better than he could've dreamed.

But then he realizes his eyes are glued shut and he can't breathe through his nose, like he's been –

Oh no.

He remembers sobbing in the middle of the night, trying to hide himself in Lydia and her being overwhelmed, trying to contain a broken dam and –

He freezes and he hears, "It's okay, Stiles," above him. Her hand moves lethargically up and down his back. "You were out of it."

He remembers finding her mouth in the darkness, soft and hot and he's desperate, hands on her lower back under her shirt, pulling her closer and –

"Besides, it wasn't just you," she adds quietly, roughly.

He remembers her kissing him back, mouth open and her cradling his face in her hands and that _noise_ between a moan and a whimper –

Stiles groans and shifts away from her. He's still not awake enough to be a gentleman – in fact, he thinks he'll go back to sleep…

**

The next time he wakes up, the sun is shining bright and Lydia is sitting up in bed, already dressed and reading his copy of _Othello_.

It's so domestic and it's _weird_ , but it's kind of nice too, something he could legitimately appreciate in the future.

He shoots up in bed. "I gotta piss so bad, oh my –" he suddenly says, scrambling to get out of bed and tripping over her crossed legs and nearly face-planting on the floor.

**

He comes back into his room with a sheepish expression on his face, but she's still engrossed with _Othello_.

His chest tightens and he wonders if it's ever going to go away, but when she looks up and smiles, he doesn't think he wants it to. He is one masochistic son of a bitch for finding her heart-stopping this long.

(Last night feels like a dream – far away and not real, although he's sure it's going to bite them in the ass – him more than her anyway.)

She looks up from the book and eyes him expectantly.

"Uh," he starts, blushing. "We have pancakes. Well, that kind where you put water in the bottle and shake it and then you pour it on a sheet. But they're still really good. If you want."

She looks away in thought and purses her mouth. "Fine," she says, standing up. "As long as you have no pulp orange juice."

"The only kind worth drinking."

She smiles and grabs him by the front of his shirt. "Let's see your great culinary skills."

"Sorry we don't have any real baking ingredients – I'm sure you would've whipped some up like a professional."

"Surprisingly, it's not something I'm a master at yet," she says.

" _Really_?"

She gives him a look. "No."

He rolls his eyes with a smile.


End file.
